


Burnout

by DarkSilverWings



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ex-delinquent reader, F/M, Fluff, Reader Is Not Frisk, Technically Reader is gender neutral, sweet tooth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8452963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkSilverWings/pseuds/DarkSilverWings
Summary: There's really no need to rush through things when you have all the time in the world. So sway to the beat of the music, sing along with the song echoing through your mind and raise your voice.A dance around hypnotic flames





	1. Rhythmic Pleasantries

Rhythmic pleasantries  
Grillby/Reader

The evening air is cold against your skin, but the door closes before you can complain, so you slink back into the chair, back pressed against the bar and eyes following the movements of the skeleton who'd just entered. You don't have to drawl, you merely swerve your seat around and prop your cheek against your palm as he rolls his eyes, "yes, (f/n), i'm late." Your lips simply quirk in a smug smirk, wordlessly sipping your drink in contempt. He doesn't need to be explicitly told that you're waiting for an explanation, "alphys was getting bullied outside her work area and undyne wouldn't let me go until she'd stopped crying, not that i would've but-"  
You pick up the glass of ketchup and alcohol that you'd kept to your side and spin it over to him, shifting your fingers off the rim and back to the wood of the counter with an ease that preaches how much control you have over your body. "grillbz, thanks for having this ready", he tips the glass before sipping as the bartender walks back out of the kitchen. He shakes his head, "This one was all (f/n)." And your gaze flits to the surprised raising of his eye sockets' upper ends, and you hum as he replies, "thanks, kid." The ice clinks in your empty glass as you set it down, and when Grillby moves to refill it, you stop him with your hand.

It's warm, his hand, not completely like touching a flame as it looks, but not completely like the glassy feel of magic either, and you're curious. You let the expression leak through on your face as you raise your fingers and move them apart enough to fit between the edges of his. It's still warm and smooth, and Grillby still isn't complaining or being called. Curiosity and the desire for the comfort of physical presence moves your fingers to lace through his fully, resting the tips against the ridges at the back of his hand. You drop your cheek back onto your palm and register briefly that Sans is quiet, so you leave him to reflect in the drink while your fingers map the feeling of the warm hand.

A monster with four arms and too much lipstick slides into the booth next to you and makes to order, and you expect Grillby to shoot off. But he doesn't, he turns your hand and squeezes it so you understand he's telling you it wasn't of his will to let go and then he moves, fluid, quick, precise. Sans opens his mouth as if to speak when you look at him, but you cut him off, " _Ketchup_ with your thoughts, I'll wait." He chuckles, but complies, you know he doesn't take kindly to people trashing his friends and he's probably thinking about Alphys and how she must feel. The monster next to you had a fur sash draped about her shoulders and an array of polished, backward facing spikes in a variety of obviously artificial colours across her head parting her hair. She's rich, you conclude when you see the skirt she's wearing and the gold studded heels. Your eyes don't hold there for long; they can't while Grillby mixes a drink in front of you.

He moves without faltering, cups sliding against each other and bottles clinking as he exchanges them while pouring; it's like watching a show. One that you bet you can get lost in quite easily. The monstress tries to drape herself bodily along the counter and 'accidentally' brush Grillby's arms as he slides the drink across, clearly she'd been watching him too, but he gives her no attention. A flick of his gaze behind the glasses that you can tell from the shift of firelight against the lenses and he turns away, serving Sans a burger and a bottle of ketchup after he briefly checks the time. You don't need to ask, he goes to the back and brings out a parfait for you, complete with it's cold metal spoon and drizzle of chocolate sauce that you don't know how he got on without freezing anywhere.

Sans grins as you spoon some ice cream, all the regulars know that the few deserts that have been added to the menu are all ones that you've requested, but it can't be helped. A sugar lover can't be denied at their favourite restaurant in town. You try not to get your hands damp while moving the glass and the noise in the bar isn't so loud as before. The night is young, and so are you, a quirk in your lip bringing it up when you thought of the hours more you could sit here, where it was warm. Warm in presence and saturated with content, something that you couldn't find with your hands pressed to a coffee mug in your chilly kitchen or cuddled in blankets on the frigid sofa. Because loneliness is cold too, and this company is the warmest.

Grillby leans against the counter towards you, curiosity etched into his featureless face and golden shadows casting across the wood and glass, onto your clothes and behind. His soft glow barely shifts as he whispers to you, "Penny for your thoughts?"  
You're glad that only you can hear the crackle of his voice and that he hadn't meant for anyone else to hear him speak at all. Glad that everyone else is busy and that they don't bother to listen. You drag a wordless syllable between your lips and raise your hand to his cheek, resting your fingers against it and drawing your thumb across the dent of a cheekbone he doesn't have. He chuckles breathlessly and tilts his head into your hand, bringing his own to cup over it and raising his body temperature enough to send jolts of warmth through your arm to your collar and joining the colour on your cheeks that isn't from the cold anymore.

He's still waiting for an answer so you contemplate what to tell him, rubbing your thumb against his skin absentmindedly while you think. You let him go when Doggo yells across the bar for another bowl of dog biscuits and a light, all the while barking with laughter at whatever game they had been playing. Your gaze shifts to Sans who's already looking at you, grinning knowingly, and you narrow your eyes briefly prompting his to close and you can tell he's agitated. You know Papyrus doesn't like him drinking but there's times he can't help it, days when he can't cope and nights when it gets harder to forget about, and although those have been few in number since they'd moved out of the Underground, he still has spiels. 

It's on those days that you lace his ketchup with alcohol you know he needs and come in a bit earlier. Slowly, you move your fingers to the counter-top to quietly tap out the beat of a song you know Sans recognises and smile when he joins you. Across the empty bar you tap the quiet song into the silence and watch Sans's shoulders drop with the weight of his sigh. White fire eyes glance from Sans to you and back before their owner slips a coin across the table, seemingly unsurprised when you slide it over to Sans and rest your cheeks on your palms as a flash of blue sounds next to you and the jukebox sings a quiet voice through the quaint bar inducing a soft sway in it's occupants as they yearned to dance away the evening.

You turn to the bartender again, and a smile flashes across his lips before he turns back to cleaning a glass you know is already spotless. His hips sway slightly and you can only tell because of the change in direction of his hands against the glass, it's hypnotic just watching him move. His eyes lower and white eyelashes drape their edges over his cheeks, your gaze travels to his glasses and he looks up before smiling. Sans swirls around on the chair to down another glass of spiked condiment, and you watch him, fascinated but also slightly disgusted. He stands from the bar stool and rakes his hand along your shoulder with a smile before he's gone and you know he hadn't drunk enough to worry his brother but enough to keep himself up.

The other occupants slowly disperse as well, and along the way the jukebox continues to play soft music, fueled by the stray coins tossed its way. Eventually, you're alone and aware it's past closing time, waiting for the flame headed bartender to ask you to leave. But he doesn't.  
He puts down his glass, adjusts the rims of his frames, leaves the cloth on the counter before walking to you.  
And he asks you to dance.

There's definitely a mischievous twinkle in the white hot flames of his eyes and you don't remember when last you'd danced but this chance was as good as any. So you clasp his outstretched hand, swaying when he pulls you close and moving around the tables to the slow beat of the song. He smells like a warm hearth, coffee, alcohol and a cologne that can't be described any way other than _Grillby._ And there's no other way to describe how you're feeling than content. Warm, slightly giddy, a light thrum of confidence from the alcohol, and pressed close to the man of fire. He sighs against your hair sending a rush of warm smoke curling into your neck which is followed by his hand, that raises itself from your waist and cups the area your neck meets your shoulders.

He's gentle, silent, fingers light against your skin and you know it's his way of being cautious. The touches are feather light, and you know from an artist's experience that he's mapping the planes of your skin as you'd done to him more times than you cared to count. The expression he wears is one of fleeting caution, ready to move at the slightest prompt in case you weren't comfortable with anything he was to do. It turns to surprise when you tilt your head just enough to give him access to your neck. His breath fans your skin for brief seconds as the music dies out and your swaying stops. Then he steps away and he tilts his head, fetches your jacket and sees you to the door before he's sweeping back inside to close up. The jukebox is out of quarters now.


	2. Pockets of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hours between visits and the hours between moments we spend together are too many.  
> The time we spend together is too fleeting for a mind that's known centuries and will know centuries more.  
> But an explosion lasts a second, and the impact shatters hearts like you've shattered mine.

Pockets of time  
Grillby/Reader

He doesn't open his bar until six in the evening, although he's once said that in Snowdin his bar was open almost all hours. Apparent it was rather hard to keep time without a sun. You know he sleeps until noon, that's his nightly rest. So you glance at your watch as you walk to his apartment, it's 2:30. Grillby could no doubt pass the time in his own way until six, but you liked to think he wouldn't without someone to pester him. Sans was accompanying his brother to a Mettaton show, so today was yours. 

The streets of the monster part of town are somehow brighter, more lively, and more people recognise and wave to you. Monsters are strangely much more friendly than humans, if a little standoffish at first. It doesn't take too long before you're past the bar and at his house. Pristine, well kept, but whether the occupant himself was awake was the real question. You rap your knuckles against the red tinged wood of his door and slip your headphones off your ears. You don't hear anything, and of course the doors don't open. What else is there to do but call the elemental himself and check? There's static on the other end for a few seconds after its answered, and your voice lowers when you hear the breaking crackle of an exhausted flame speak, "Hello?"

"Grillby? I came to check on you, are you alright?" Originally you'd been on your way to get some coffee with the intention of hauling him along but that had been dismissed. "...just fine, (F/n)."  
A light hum drops from your lips as you offer whatever supporting presence you could through the phone. "I'll pop off then? If you would like to be left alone?" He keeps quiet, you take that as affirmative. Before you can disconnect though, a garble filters through the receptor that you hold back to your ear, "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"  
"...come in, please. The back door's open."  
The garden looks equally well managed from all sides and you barely notice the backdoor behind the fire lilies.

It's rare for him to ask anything, so you mumble your confusion as you open the door. The kitchen's empty and dark, you're confused. You had taken Grillby as the type of person who always had the kitchen lights on and something on the stove, but here you were standing in the cold. A voice echoes from the next room, and it's only now that you catch the break in it, "(F/n)...?"  
There's something wrong here. You shut the door and cross the marble tiles in your socks after discarding your shoes at the door. The light he's giving off is faint and dull, and when you turn you see that's because he himself is in that state at the moment. 

There's dark tracks down his cheeks and it takes you quite an embarrassing while to realise those are tear tracks. Before asking anything, you walk to stand in front of him and ask politely for his permission, which he gives by way of a nod, before pulling him into your embrace. He doesn't move at all, and you feel his breaths faint and light against your neck. Your ankles are cramping but you don't pay heed, instead rubbing your thumb across Grillby's shoulder beneath the mess of blankets he was swathed in. Tentative fingers reach around your waist and pull you next to him on the couch, and you allow him to relax against your neck. Something like a little spark of evening star drops against your shoulder, and you don't feel it at all until another drops into the dip of your collarbone. 

You sigh quietly, "Oh Grillby."  
Slowly but surely, you move yourself to rest against the arm of the couch before coaxing him to stretch out by slowly rubbing his calves and ankles with your own feet. It doesn't have to be said, you won't ask, you never do. Grillby knows it's not because you don't care, rather that you downplay just how much you do care, but you've always respected privacy like a tradition. Slow breaths heave against you and you're glad his crying has finally stopped but unaware of why he had been crying at all.

You don't have to be aware, he doesn't owe that knowledge to you and you won't coax it out of him. You certainly could, he was weak now, vulnerable and exploitable, but you never had taken a twisted opportunity like that. His breathing comes in shudders, broken and cold, you draw fingers across his neck and into the low flames atop his head. They don't burn, they're cool and shirking away from their natural height. "Grillby", he doesn't reply, but the shift of his crackle lets you know he's listening, "Copy my breathing."

You count from twenty, backwards and slow, naming things you could remember with the numbers and taking deep breaths. You don't expect him to try but he does, evenly matching your breathing and quietly sending puffs of cold smoke roiling over your shoulder. He's calm now, thinking, shivering a little but that took time. And something warm. "Hey, would you like some tea? Maybe an herbal blend?"

He lowers his eyelids, white eyelashes standing out against his skin and you smile as best as you can, "...camomile it is. I'll go make some."  
But he tugs at your sleeve and you can't leave him alone so long as he's like that. "Can you stand?" He tries, you hold him up when he collapses against you, and with his arm over your shoulder you support his walk to the kitchen. Once you're there you nudge him to sit on the counter while you fetch water and put it on to boil before pulling out his teacups of the same set, and his lips twitch up. His fingers tense as if to raise his hand but he doesn't, he doesn't have to because you see that twitch and you move to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms around his hips as he drops his head at your shoulder and rapidly tries to calm the breathing he's finding difficult to do properly. He rocks you back and forth, back and forth to music you can't hear until the teapot whistles and he lets go gently. 

You pour the tea and put in two sugar cubes before stirring, exactly the way he likes it, and repeating the action with yours. You lean against the counter beside him to sip as he holds his cup and vacantly stares at it's contents. The evening sky sets it's glow through the half-closed windows and paints auburn shadows across the dark wood furniture. You wash the cups as he goes to shower, wondering absently if he showered with lava since he couldn't touch water, and fix his bow-tie when he's fiddling with it. His hand reaches up to clasp yours, and it's still warm and tangible, you lean into his touch as the minutes tick by and the clock is your friend today. He pulls your hand up and kisses the back of it, a rush of warmth tingling through your arm and up to your cheeks, settling as a rosy tint that's just so pleased to be around him. He smiles back. You know he's okay.

It's 6:10 when he opens the bar, but nobody seems to mind very much. You tell him not to blame you if you fall asleep in the warmth that curls around you, and he smiles again, sliding a cup across the counter for you to sip at. Sans looks awful smug that evening, once he's done interrogating Grillby on why exactly he was ten minutes late in his own fashion. You just laugh at the skeleton and knock his bottle of ketchup with the glass you're holding, who's contents are depleted by half by now. Sans stays sipping ketchup next to you until the bar closes and even the dogs have left with their cards. Grillby mentions a tab as he takes the empty ketchup bottle and Sans is gone before you can persuade him to help clean up. 

It never ceased to surprise you how he could just vanish like that. "i know some pretty neat shortcuts pal", is all he answered when you'd asked, some time ago. Grillby chuckles, the crackling sound of a house fire surrounded by music, and tells you not to bother with it. Instead, you drag yourself off the counter and walk around it and take the cloth away from Grillby's fingers. He attempts to protest, but you push him to where you'd been sitting and clean the counter, the glasses, and all the tables that needed it before flicking the light off and walking over to Grillby. 

He smiles, mouth of white fire splitting his face, and reaches down to cup your fingers with his own, eventually sliding his digits through yours from behind, not really lacing them but enough that you knew what he meant. You rub soothing circles on his thumb and forefinger, locking up the door with your free hand before dropping the keys back into Grillby's chest pocket. You walk home with him, still marginally worried but mainly because you didn't want to have to leave him alone. He stops you at the door, and looks at you through his glasses. You stand, squeezing his hand faintly and unflinching from his gaze. Eventually, he leans forward enough for his breath to ghost over your cheeks and roll past your neck, "...I'll be okay."

"Are you sure, Grillby?"  
"...yes", he answers, and so you reach your free hand up to raise his jaw slightly and grin at him as best you can.  
"Good night, then", you say, letting go of his hand and his face and turning around to walk away.  
"...(f/n)?"  
You turn with a light hum, and he continues with a sigh that's probably out of embarassment. "Come by soon?" He doesn't mean the bar, he means his house, and you say you will before leaving. Even when you didn't go to his house you were always at the bar unless you were seriously under pressure from a deadline. Or sick. The concept of colds confused him unusually, but rather adorably if you say so yourself. Regardless, he knows you'll see him soon, and he's always grateful for those hours you are around, however few and spaced out they may or may not be.


	3. Spectre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the hours pass in silence, I'll never understand  
> All I can hear is your voice in the dark  
> Calling me, calling me  
> And I wait for the cool planes of your visage once more

Spectre  
Grillby/Reader  
  
He thinks he's pouring a drink of some sort for a patron he hadn't paid attention to until your voice echoes across the bar and his head whips around to the empty seats. You really aren't there, though it's eleven thirty and he hasn't seen you in _days._ He turns back to what he'd been doing, realising he'd been pouring whiskey into a glass jar and snapping out of his stupor instantly. The bar doesn't stop for him, so he can't be stopping now either. He prepares the correct drink, serving quickly the numerous customers he'd forgotten to pay heed to. They cut him slack enough to brush it off with a smile, his regular patrons know he's a regular monster and there are times even he can space out. 

 

Someone plays an instrumental piece on the jukebox and he wants to dance with you, to feel your cold skin at his neck and his fingers and let his hand rest at your hip. He thinks of you in a formal dress, hair partially done up and lipstick glossy with the reflections of lights from a chandelier somewhere above. He thinks of your laughter, ringing through the air like light, and the golden of the champagne dusting speckles across your lashes. "hey", a voice chimes, behind his ear so suddenly he drops the cloth and sounds, "Fuck", under his breath. "heh, did I scare ya?" Sans is all grins as he slides into his regular seat, boned phalanges knocking against the table. Someone is eyeing him oddly from a table to the left and he realises he's supposed to give something to them. Fries? A burger? A drink? 

 

"a burger and two of the house special, grillbz." Sans looks worried and still amused as Grillby flits around the bar as fast as possible. The couple smile when he serves them what they ordered and he hopes he hadn't taken too long. Sans wants a bottle of ketchup, so he's handed one and the bar seems silent. It's nearly one a.m. and there's no sign of you still. "this is as long as i can wait with ya grillbz. my bro needs his bedtime story", Sans tells him, sliding the empty bottle back and sticking his hands in his pockets. "...I'll see you tomorrow, Sans", Grillby says, already knowing to put the condiment on the tab Sans never pays. The skeleton jumps off the seat and shuffles towards the door, slippers quiet against the wooden floor and the bar is empty again.

He cleans the tables and turns the chairs over, washes the glasses and hangs them to dry, goes to the back to change into more casual attire and just as he moves to click the lights off, the door opens. Before he can tell this person he's closed, a slurred voice cuts the stale air, _"Grillby."_ His eyes raise and widen, surprised to see you here, face flushed and looking exhausted as hell. "Yeah I'm a fuckin' mess", you shrug, propping an elbow against the doorway and wiping the edge of your mouth, where he notices a cut. He walks over to you, and raises a hand momentarily, waiting until you shrug, though that's almost a scoff and his hand moves to rest against your shoulder. 

 

"What happened?" He questions, quietly, in case he was being hasty. "Got into a fight. Dealt with some shit. Beat the hell outta some punks", you manage between breaths, rolling the shoulder that isn't braced against the wall and turning your head to crack your neck. Grillby's warm hand slides to the exposed part of your neck, relieving the tension you weren't even aware had been there. "Looks like I still got it", you muse, sounding quite smug about still being able to fight like you did in your delinquent days. Grillby shakes his head and takes your wrist, locking the door behind him and handing you a helmet as he climbs onto his bike. "I have a car, but-"  
"-its not worth the five minute drive to your place", you finish neatly. "So why are we taking the drive?"

  
The rev of the engine effectively shuts the both of you up and Grillby's helmet resembles the peepholes of a furnace. The air's freezing, and you feel the temperature spike at the bruises you'd just newly sampled, wincing as your leg shifts against his through various layers of clothing. Somewhere in those five minutes you'd put your arms around his waist and dropped your head on his back. Practicality's sake of course.  
He stops, but you don't recognise any of the buildings or the gate in front of you, so you get off and continue to look at him as he parks. Sensing your stare, he tells you it's just somewhere he likes to go and nothing more. He takes your hand as he enters the dark tunnel, pitch black all around you making sense of the action. You hadn't wanted it to make sense.

A voice calls your name softly in the darkness and that sounds like Grillby but it's not so you stop walking. He stops too, soft glow illuminating the floor in all directions and the door to a room to the side. A blue glow casts from the door and you look towards your companion. He moves towards you, resting an arm around your shoulders as he mumbles, "Exactly there is where I'm taking you." And you lean back against him for a few moments. "Grillby", you hum.  
"Yes?"

  
You raise your chin, top of your head against his shoulder and your hair filling the space between as he threads his fingers through it. Your hands lift to cup his cheeks though they're upside down and you can't see straight, but the touch of his skin isn't a lie and the grooves your fingers follow aren't familiar enough yet. Your touch is feather-light as your fingers ghost over his features and he wants to tell you he's alright with it, but if this is what you want he'll let you skim your fingers over the surface of his skin. It seems to him like you're afraid of the confidence that comes with a gesture like touch, and he so desperately wants to know why but he doesn't ask. 

 

You let go, moving away and taking his hand as you enter the room and you can't breathe anymore. It isn't really a room so much as a large ground filled with a glowing blue variety of flowers that sways in the breeze you can somehow feel even here and you move towards them. A few more mumble your name again and you almost ask if that's the flowers, ridiculous as it may sound, but the one in front of you calls you pretty. You turn around, wincing at the suddenness of the action and Grillby stands, smile on his face and hands in his coat pockets as you point to the flower. 

 

  
He shakes his head and you walk further, sweet murmuring reaching your ears that sounds an awful lot like Grillby himself but comes from the flowers. When you've reached the end, you touch the wall and turn around, spotting a bench in the greenery midway towards the wall. You beckon the bartender to join you and he does, sitting next to you and finally you ask what they are. "Echoflower", he answers, and you've heard of it. Five flowers around him mumble the same word back to him and you wince a little before a chuckle escapes your lips that's accompanied by his laugh. His laugh is wonderful to listen to, always. "Thank you," you say, clasping his hand once more as a sense of vertigo grips you with the nausea that had built up in that fight. "You're welcome," he replies, rising and leading you to the door and you really want to come back. Not so much as you wanted to be with him right now though. As your arms rest around his waist you notice his hips are slim and his shoulders aren't stocky, he's leaner than you'd thought, breathing shifting his frame up and down almost human like.

He drops you by your house, stars too dull in the cityscape and can't help but admire the colours his fire paints across your skin but it isn't more than a reflection, oh how he needs more. Your fingers raise in a wave as he repeats the gesture and drives off. You're exhausted now, even more so as you drag your feet into your house, practically collapsing on the mattress with no regard for your injuries that you would definitely regret ignoring in the morning. But that was hours of sleep later, it wouldn't be morning till you woke up and you yawn once more, weight keeping your limbs down as you shifted to pull on pyjamas from the other side of the bed and thanked yourself for forgetting to put them away the previous night. It's much too late for anything but sleep, and as soon as your head hits the pillow, your eyelids slide shut and you're alone with the silence of static dreams you won't remember in the morning. But the morning was far away, there was time for it to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No I didn't die I'm just slow sorry  
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated :)


	4. Conversational

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A desire that's not hostile, not lustful, not forceful  
> Words that fill the silence in content, not obligation

Conversational  
Grillby/Reader  
  
Sans talks about the past only when he's drunk, and even then not more than a few words before you tell him he's drunk. You can't stand making people uncomfortable by letting them say things they'd regret. He's grateful for it, since it meant he could tell you thinks at his discretion instead of the alcohol's. He mentions war, names you hadn't heard, a core underground, and a time loop that you assume is a joke of some sort alluding to the lack of time keeping underground. They could use wrist watches but you don't believe a monster would think to put on a wrist watch before they'd been sealed underground. You aren't sure how long they'd been there, but nobody tells you so you don't ask. 

Grillby, however, doesn't talk at all. As you sit on the couch together, he sips his mug of coffee as you set yours down on the immaculate glass table and talk. It's a conversation that's largely with yourself because he doesn't like talking but it's alright with you. He's like this, it's not radio silence or a symptom of illness, it's just quietude. So you're alright with talking to yourself for a large period of time, it's not as if this was the first time. It's a little comforting to know he's probably not flat out ignoring you, but honestly you aren't sure of that either. You've got a self control like an iron chain that keeps you off anything potentially embarrassing, crude, or even just plain dumb. 

You stop mid-sentence and sigh, leaning back and picking up your book, wondering if he cared very much that you'd just stopped talking. The only sound is the crackling of his flames so you let the silence ensue as you read. He calls out your name, leaning toward you with a concerned expression showing through his flickering flames, and you look up. "Why did you stop? Did I upset you?"  
You chuckle, "No, Grillby, I just thought I was boring you." 

Your answer is frank, but it's honest enough so you don't bother trying to cover it up. Instead of a laugh, you get no sound from him and you turn, only to see his furrowed eyebrows and partially open mouth. "But you _weren't_?" He offers, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and you can't help but want to hug him, _gods_ he's so sweet. He puts his book down on the table with your empty cups and slides closer to you earnestly, "...what's your favourite book?"

  
He looks both curious and worried and you chuckle, setting aside your own novel and moving so the warmth he radiates washes over your side. "I'll tell you if you let me see your hand," you offer, the desire to capture his form on paper growing again as you note just how attractive he is, honestly you'd never drop a chance to just look at him. If the statement sounds odd to him, he makes nothing of it and nods, leaning against the back of the couch with you as you take his left hand in yours, barely holding it at all. Your fingers graze his wrist so lightly he barely feels it as you tell him about your favourite book; turns out he's heard of it but not read it. 

Slowly, your other hand moves along the planes of his palm and individually along his fingers, each time holding up only enough for you to look at the swirling colours and no longer than is acceptable. Your thumb drags across the back of his hand, fingers resting slightly away from his palm and again he wonder why you don't just hold his hand. You start to pull your hand away but his fingers close over yours, and only then does he realise how genuinely cold your hands are. Your fingers flinch as if running from him, as if you don't want to be touched and the contact will scorch you but his grip is loose enough for you to shake off. And you don't. His thumb traces the inward line of your wrist, and he occasionally breaks the silence with a few words. You're still jittery, but you relax against his frame as he sits by you, his flames almost humming as pushes his digits through the gaps in yours, the back of his hand pressing against your palm and rests your hands against his leg.

"Can I ask how long ago the war was?" You test the topic, not wanting to force him into reliving moments he may not be comfortable remembering at all. He doesn't respond for a few seconds, but you let the question hang in the air instead of withdrawing it, and much to your delight he answers, "Centuries ago, I can't quite remember the day itself."  
"Centuries?" You repeat, awe in your voice that soon slips into mirth as you realise something. He nods so you continue, "So you're centuries old? Talk about an _old flame._ "  
His melodious laugh fills the room and you can't help but join him because he looks so happy, so content and it's a ridiculous experience just seeing him. You somewhat hope he doesn't catch the hint of affections you aren't sure of in that joke, and he doesn't seem to so you keep your smile up. 

"Grillby?"  
"Mm?"  
"Someday you should go to Mount Ebott to visit your old patrons who stayed back. I think they'd miss you."  
"If you come with me," he lays his condition and you had believed he wouldn't want you there at all. "Of course," you squeeze his hand, watching the flames dance around your fingers and wisps of smoke trail above his head. The afternoon sun's light filters through the curtains and the closed window glass and the glow is a slightly different shade from Grillby's but they mix along the furniture and the table, reflections dancing along the wood and marble of the empty cups. If he's aware of this, he doesn't say it, and there's only so much you can do by way of printing this scene in your mind.

  
Grillby can't help but notice his flame's colour draped over your skin, orange and red painted across and over the white and yellow of the sunlight, and your skin is like a canvas with how it catches the colour so beautifully. He wonders if you know this, and resists the urge to swipe his fingers across your soft cheeks, movement shifting the contours of your face. You're an aesthetic daydream washed in the light of day and fire.

Grillby doesn't think of romance or courting, he doesn't believe himself forward enough to jump past thoughts of someone as a person. He thinks of times spent together, words spoken and what the atmosphere had been, he wonders of when next he can meet someone and when last he'd seen them. He's a bartender, he sees people whether he wants to or not, and he enjoys every part of the job and all it entails. The mix of human and monster customers, though the majority still are monsters, regulars and the occasional tip and smile; meeting people both in good moods and cursing under their breath, mixing drinks and serving them; _everything._  

Being the owner of a place like his allowed for many things that he couldn't have experienced in any other way; not even Sans with all his connections knows people like he does. Inebriated or sober, heavy drinkers or the ones who order mocktails, sobbing messes or the most regal folk, things seem to change at a bar and he enjoys just being an observer. So all he wants to do is to know you, to be close to you and know the planes of your skin and the scope of your thoughts better than his own. There's nothing more to it than his being intrigued by just how much you stood out. Just by aura and nothing else, you were just someone who stood out among crowds without trying and didn't even seem to like the light. 

He loves your innocent touches, your eyes skimming over his palms, hands, neck, parts of his face when it's acceptable, and he loves even more that you ask every time. It's a flattery he's not used to that brings a smile to his lips every time. Your gaze never holds longer than acceptable, and you've set boundaries for yourself just to seem respectable and though at times he wonders why you'd set them, he's always completely in awe. It's your self control and how you hold yourself that drags his curiosity higher and higher, you're the type of person that it would take _so long_ to get to know, who'll talk to _him_ over _your_ drink, that wouldn't spill personal problems very easily to anyone. Grillby can't say he doesn't want to know everything, to hear your problems, and the way you talk just makes him _want to_.

Sans looks shocked when Grillby chuckles at jokes you make, when he makes small talk with you and even bothers with the useless pleasantries of greeting and parting and courteous thanking. He'd never believed Grillby to be someone that spoke when not necessary, and that's because he _wasn't_ , until the minute you asked how his day had been. On the flip side though, Sans can't say very many people come in and ask in full sincerity how the _bartender's_ day has been; it's mostly just for the fix and the alcohol, which Sans doesn't deny is what he does too. 

Well, they are friends but he doesn't visit very often just for the company. You aren't partial either, you ask Sans how his work is, how his brother is and if anything was bothering him; it's something he's definitely not used to and he always stammers through a half baked answer. You fix your gaze on him for seconds enough that he knows he can trust you, and then you close your eyes in a concession that the words shouldn't be forced from him and turn back to the counter. Sans ends up telling you more often than not if something had happened, a rarity in his case. He loves the company you give.

  
"Are you tired?" You ask softly, directed towards the bartender and Sans flicks his gaze away from Doggo. Grillby's flames crackle passively as he sighs, "A little." You hum, resting your cheek on your palm and looking towards the jukebox as Sans wonders how he hasn't noticed the slight slump in his shoulders or jerky movements. "Can I watch you?" You ask, not daring to turn your face to him until he echoes an approval, flavoured with a scoff that's more in disbelief than hostility. Neither can believe when you turn to just watch his hands, fingers sliding back and forth underneath the towel to wipe clean the glasses of any moistness and rid the surface of fingerprints. You stay that way till your cup is empty and then you lean forward till Sans is sure Grillby can feel your soft breath, "Close early." It's barely a murmur that escapes your lips but the second it does, Sans is behind it. If Grillby was as tired as his motion indicated, there was no reason to keep the place open full time. It would only aggravate his tiredness and make it worse later. Sometimes he's scared by how practically observant you are. Grillby doesn't seem to be anything but amazed.


	5. Lilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, softly, the sound of your voice reaches my ears  
> And I'm at peace again

Lilt  
Grillby/Reader

When Grillby's fingers brush yours or slip through them, the warmth is tangible but not scalding, almost fluid in it's nature and solid as his comfortable grip. He asks, every time, by way of a small nudge or an unspoken question that you answer by leaning over and clasping his hand in yours, anxious and heart much too loud but the searing white line that splits his face in an incredulous smile is enough for a hundred uncertain gestures and you never question it twice before you hold onto his fingers. 

He's a monster of subtlety, sensing the hesitance in the shift of your grip and soothing it with the press of his thumb to the dip at the back of your hand, fingers tightening when yours loosen. At times your thumb will draw light patterns over the back of his hand, he stops you with a smile most of the time, turning his hand so he's the one drawing against your skin and smiling softly at your questioning gaze. 

You've mapped his fingers a thousand times, how the bit on his middle one suggested art of some kind, you knew you had that too, the slope of his knuckles sliding down to his wrist and the solid protrusion of a bone he doesn't have on the outside of it, each finger so slender he could be a model for rings. Thin wisps of flame flicker and curl around his skin, around the joints of his fingers and encircling his wrist, far across the tips of his fingers and when they dance around your appendages too you never think to question it because he's so godawfully beautiful and he doesn't vainly brag of it yet you are able to bear witness to it. Sometimes he'll notice and apologise and you never more want to tell him not to. But if he wants to apologise you let him.

Smoke from incense goes straight up before it curves into rivulets of wisps that wrap around each other and separate into the surrounding air. Slowly, slowly you turn your finger watching the smoke spin a different pattern, cheery and giddy as it jumps across the contrast of your skin and Grillby is almost the same. He'll let you carefully change his routine, how he works, how he moves because your intention isn't to change him but to have him listen to you. You become a part of his life, a part of him and a part of what's more than just routine.

Routine is the dogs coming into the bar at exactly the same time everyday, the drunken flirt passing out against the bar, Sans who comes in for his spiked ketchup. But the way his soul does a double take at your smile, burning through him at your laugh that you always, always muffle with your hand, how soft it is to touch your skin, palm and fingers and shoulders when he has to hold you upright, the curve of your waist that shifts into his grip as he sometimes hauls you out drunk, none of those are routine. And they incarcerate their way into his life, flickering and jumping and unforgivingly blatant. He only hopes you won't be too harsh on how forward he is.

Evenings at the bar are the best hours, the soft music and the almost empty room, before the rush and after the opening time stress, the exact hours business is slow and Grillby will stand by you if you sit at the bar. You get to watch him clean glasses, take plates out, and sometimes he'll lean against his elbow on the bar and speak to you, hushed, quiet tones and casual words flooded with so much genuine attention you have to answer each one earnestly, have to slip your fingers between his when he places his palm on the counter and though your hands aren't entwined your fingers on his knuckles are real and solid as the vibrant air between you. 

You know it's unbecoming to show such forward enthusiasm, to speak so much so frequently so selfishly about only yourself but Grillby listens to you with affection in his eyes that you'd never even thought possible. He asks questions, fills the lapses in conversation, and you are always interrupted by Sans who'll ask if he's interrupting anything. Grillby gets his bottle of ketchup and frowns at the way you leave your incomplete sentence unattended and the flicker that chances across your gaze is all too real. Sans doesn't seem to notice, but Grillby thinks he hadn't been around for the entire conversation in order for him to.

"hey grillbz, not lookin' so hot there," it's a statement that implies a question he only asks when you leave with talk of work to be done. Grillby shakes his head in denial of the question itself and slips into the back kitchen to fix up more food. Sans stays, sits, doesn't ask again.  
"Sans I think-"  
"grillbz ol' buddy ol' friend o'mine you gotta tell people when you like 'em okay? Ain't nobody that gets it without words, specially a human that can't read souls."  
"How did-"  
"i haven't been comin' round here this long for nothin' friendo."  
He gives Sans the extra bottle of ketchup he'd usually not, throws in some alcohol free of cost and doesn't respond to the mock cheers he gets from the skeleton.

The next time he sees you he brings up the half sentence you had dropped, earnest and curious and clutching your hands. You blink, clearly confused and ask him what he's talking about, he tells you. You chuckle, "Grillby, it wasn't that important anyways." He shakes his head, cheeks white and fingers probably too warm but you don't complain. He doesn't back off. You shrug. 

"Can you...tell me why you do that?"  
"Do what?"  
"Disregard your own words. Disregard your interests and your voice and your way of talking."  
You don't answer for a while, simply shifting your palms in his and gently squeezing. "Because they aren't important," is what you settle on answering, and he desperately wants to deny every sentiment in that one sentence. He hopes it doesn't show.

He doesn't answer for a while, content to stand in front of you in the library, forgetting what a chance meeting this had been. You don't show any inclination of moving, shifting your feet more comfortably and tapping your thumbs against themselves. "Grillby?"  
He realises he hasn't answered yet, eyes flaring up in panic. But you don't ask for an answer, "Can I buy you coffee?"

He's confused but he lets you pull him to the counter on the other side of the library. Bookstore, rather, now that he thinks about it. You place an order as the cashier shoots odd looks at Grillby, and he smiles wryly as he realises monsters may be free but it would be years before they were accepted. 

"What d'ya think you're lookin' at, huh?" The drawl in your voice accompanies the deep frown and if he wasn't so enraptured by the aura he never noticed he would've been terrified too. Instead the cashier offers a shake of head and rushes off to process the order. You coolly take his wrist and pull him to the waiting side. His fingers slide down and catch yours, pulling and pressing them to his palm as a definite smile splits his face. You're just too sweet for him, even when your glare is terrifying every barista there.  
In the end he forgets about the barista and the bookstore, why he'd come or what he was doing, so long as you speak to him, waving encyclopaedias and the odd thriller in his face, he can't focus on anything but the lilt in your voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ey no I'm not dead and neither is this story  
> Just takes a heck ton of motivation to write lmao  
> Hope ya liked this!  
> Also between last and this chapter my birthday came and went so there's that now  
> Ahem  
> Hope y'all liked this chapter! Comments and kudos are always appreciated and I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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